


Out of Bounds

by TipsyEpsy



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Parenting, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Memories, Gen, Good Guy Bendy (Bendy and the Ink Machine), Henry Stein Saves Everyone, Henry isn't ok but he's sorta marching along, Ink, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of War, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Psychological Trauma, Slang, Strong Language, Swearing, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TipsyEpsy/pseuds/TipsyEpsy
Summary: One could say that it all began with an old chewed-up pencil and a silly little child's dream, but that was honestly not the whole truth. In reality it all began many years later with a hopeful letter and an apology from an estranged friend.It was time for Joey Drew's inky nightmare to come to an end, but that old devil was never going to give up without putting up a fight. Fortunately for Henry, the Entity within the Ink has grown just as tired of its prison as the prisoners it has tormented for years.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	1. From the desk of Henry Stein

Dear Joey

Although I find it regretful that our last wasn't the most pleasant nor calmest of meetings (considering how our discussion became a most heated argument), I have taken some time these past few years to mull over our divergent opinions, and found myself reconsidering both my past life choices and my current options. With that said, I felt the need to reach out and bury the hatchet on this particular matter. Although in all honesty it feels more like an excuse to get a bit of weight off my chest (since we parted on such terrible terms).

After some days of deep introspection (on Linda's insistence that I rethink things instead of moping like a child in perpetual time-out), I believe that being a cartoonist and animator wasn't at all what I expected, nor actually what I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing. Something which explains my outburst, but doesn't quite excuse my rudeness.

I will admit it was a pleasant dream, that of bringing our creations to life through our combined efforts, but I have since realized that there is no real joy to be found in slaving away behind a desk, barely able to even so much as breathe when the workload increases every day, and the stress fills me with a bitter resentment towards myself and my work (there's a lot of mistakes in the old cartoons that I still regret to this day). It felt like I was the only one pulling my weight, when in truth I knew you were focused on writing the scripts, as well as managing all financial administrations. It was also unfair to undermine both Sammy's and Norman's efforts, especially when they worked so hard since joining the team, as well as Wally's dutiful cleaning and locking up at ungodly hours (the commute at such times couldn't have been safe for such a young kid).

I know we wanted to make it big out there together. Just you and me against the world as it always had been, but we aren't children anymore. 

It isn't going to work like that anymore. Not in the real world, where our lives are decided by the stability of a failing economy. Where a fun hobby could become so droning and exhausting. It burnt me out terribly...

Still, I sincerely think you can make it out there on your own. You have always had a way to get what you wanted, dreamer and achiever that you have always been.

Me? I have never really dreamt for anything bigger than a house with a backyard where I could grow some flower beds, and maybe house one of those silly pink birds and tall-hatted fellows my neighbors love so much for some reason... I know you always pushed me to dream bigger and to think outside of the box, but you know I prefer things to be simpler.

That said, I think I'm going to be a teacher or maybe a florist. I always did like to tend to my mother's garden just as much as I enjoyed drawing, and I think I'd also like to help the younger generations learn. Pass on a trade, I suppose.

Take good care of Bendy for me. And Boris and Alice too, they're just as important as the little devil darling. You should know, you fought tooth and nail for me to relent rights to the studio.

I'll be reading the papers, expecting your name followed by the great things you'll do out in the film industry. Hopefully you'll think of adding color to the pictures, I've seen some of Disney's works, the crowd really likes a dash of color. It feels like magic I suppose.

Be kind to Wally, he's a good kid that will do great things one day, I just know it.

Be more respectful towards Sammy as well, he's young and a bit prideful but he knows what he's doing and he has a little sister to care for outside of the studio.

And please don't fire Norman like you kept threatening to do, he is a highly skilled film technician and he means well. He will definitely be an invaluable employee if you just make an ally out of him rather than an enemy.

Above all else, be good to those who might have joined the studio since I left. If there's anything history has taught me, is that bad employers suffer karma the most...

This has gotten a little longer than I anticipated, so I will wrap it up as best I can. It's not much of an apology letter, and I'm terribly sorry for that, but you know I have always been terrible with words.

Hope to hear from you soon if you'd like to still keep in touch and break this radio silence you've decided to keep up for the last 10 years... It's been rough recovering from the war without your happy-go-lucky attitude. I even miss that mischievous smile of yours, even if it usually meant you'd gotten us into trouble.

Best of luck.

Your friend, Henry Stein


	2. A new script

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeking inspiration from an old yellowing letter, Joey decides to give Henry one last chance to get the script right.

Merry melodious whistling was not uncommon in one Joseph Drew's quaint little New York apartment. If anything, it was somewhat the norm for the man who was quite fond of working a cheery repetitive tune throughout his day, as he tended to whatever chore he had set up for himself. Routine was, after all, one of very few comforts Joey indulged in to keep himself going and (somewhat) sane. 

Well, other than a warm meal of kraft mac'n'cheese and maybe a piece of delicious devil's food cake… Those were both his guiltier pleasures in terms of indulgence, and the one rare instance where he splurged on himself...

Today however there was no melody.

Not one sound of merriment or familiarity to be found, as tired blue eyes gazed upon an old yellowing letter that still to this day gave him so many mixed feelings. Rereading it, as he had done thousands upon thousands of times before, rather than repeating the same cyclical pattern he'd been following to a 'T' for the last five years.

Strange, as Joey preferred to stick to a tight script than deviate from the staples of his standard routine. Creature of strict habit that he was.

But this letter? Oh… It was something special alright... 

A letter of a heinously and deceitfully hopeful nature that, in truth, twisted a treacherous knife into his old broken heart.

Because this half-assed apology that was so very Henry Stein? The endearing ramblings, the lack of a point besides just existing in a way that still made perfect sense to those who knew the soft-spoken wannabe florist? 

It preceded an invite.

To be more precise, an invite to a wedding.

A direct slap to the face, if Joey ever did stand on the receiving end of one.

Oh yes this vile letter, this damnable piece of parchment and ink that had given him so much false hope to rekindle a lost flame… It had hurt him so much more than the actual news that his dear beloved Henry was to be wed to some wench that held no artistic flair, nor any creativity in whatever dark recesses she called a mind.

That **HIS** Henry was not going to be truly appreciated in the way he so deserved, the way Joey could appreciate him!

And that sort of rejection? To be cast aside for someone who wasn't even second best to him? That didn't love him as passionately as Joey did?

It was torturous, scandalous even, that Henry would stoop so low… How very maddeningly ignorant of him!

Shaky hands twitched in silent hurtful fury, forced to still themselves through sheer will so as to avoid ripping up the offending message held tightly in his grip. The intrusive thoughts always came back full force when Joey lay eyes upon Henry's writing. That familiar form of unique calligraphy bringing back bitter memories that clogged his mind with regrets and what-ifs that never came to be. Nostalgic in a rather pathetic way...

The doubts, the insecurities, the phantom pains of bare cheeks reddening under the strikes of his father's rough calloused hands, and the shrill shrieks of his disappointed mother outraged by his failing maths grades...

What did that towering she-beast, Linda, have that Joey didn't? What could she offer Henry with that amazonian build of hers? Brute strength? Was she of use as a mule, carrying groceries and the gentle soft man that had swept Joey off his feet many years prior to this lofty bimbo sauntering into their lives?

Was it her feminine looks that sparked interest? Her massive rack? Her voluptuous rump? The fullness of her lips? Surely Henry was not so blind to ignore male beauty? He'd always commented on Joey's good looks when they were both strapping young men, going so far as to also appreciate his classmates' and coworkers' most defining traits in secret. 

Joey still recalled the burn of envy when his best friend pointed out in confidence how Sammy Lawrence's eyes were absolutely stunning to look upon in the low light of the studio, the green sparkling its brightest when his desk lamp caught them in the right angle. 

Or how Mr. Polk looked like he could cradle a grown man in a comforting (if not bone-crushing) hug with how absolutely massive the man was built, each toned muscle beautifully framed by fine clothing… It had made Joey wonder what was so wrong with his own sapphire blues that plain hazel looked so nice, or why some Louisiana brute with a penchant for dressing smooth seemed more huggable than someone Henry had grown up with, and knew like the back of his own two hands… It wasn't a nice sensation, that of wanting the unwarranted attention his pal gave to those two useless pawns. 

It's not as if they would have ever had the chance to get with the bespectacled gentleman that offered them such lovely compliments, that pair of temperamental punks...

If not feminine looks, then was it perhaps something of a more instinctual and carnal nature? Was it the forbidden fruit Henry sought when he went to Linda? Someplace warm, wet and tight that would then one day spew out little half-breed brats for Henry to go absolutely soft over? Brats that might not even hold a lick of the talent their father had?

His dear friend was the sort to want for a larger family, even if providing for such numbers of spawn might not be so easy after Wall Street completely crashed and burned.

That left the real questions: Was Joey's mind not enough to satisfy another? His charms? His wits? The elegance of his movements? The precision of his actions and intentions? The tightness of his own crevices, and wetness of a skilled mouth?

He could not bear real flesh and blood children, yes, but were the characters they brought into this world not like offsprings to them?

This letter, those questions… They had hurt Joey back then, when he'd first read it and sunk deep into his own mind. But they had also inspired him in a way.

Just as it did again today, as he reread it for the gazillionth time. A depraved little spark of creative torment, brought on by the very same words that originated a positively silly idea way back in the '40s. An idea that ended in the creation of yet another letter in '63.

This little well of inspiration that had guided him thus far in this path of perilous misadventure and misfortune, would surely lead to another moment of brilliance in the current date, that finally brought him to glory. Even if he was technically running out of time to succeed in his self-appointed mission.

Time…

Glancing up at the clock Joey couldn't help but purse his lips in displeasure. He stared back down at the letter and then up at his desk where the most recent storyboards lay in wait.

Rehashes of previous scripts. Useless tat that got him nowhere near the breaking point of Henry's determined stubbornness.

Yes, despite the current time constraints, he was inspired. Nathan had been nosing around more frequently and Joey knew it was only a matter of time before he came knocking and got to the machine.

He either made this run count, or he might have to completely abandon his research before he could reach a breakthrough.

Even worse of a thought was that, in doing so, he would have to abandon Henry in the process. 

Leave him to the fat cat that hoped to claim the fruits of Joey's harduos labours… And, as much as the bespectacled bastard had betrayed and abandoned him, Joey could never really let his best friend go.

Henry was his, just like the Ink Machine.

Nathan could wish to take it all he wanted, but he would never have Henry.

Not as long as Joey lived, and he might live for a very long time still, if the last five years were anything to go by...

But the date he dreaded was nearing steadily and his old pal still had yet to follow the script properly, so it was time to temporarily forget the worries and really nudge him forward. Even if he'd have to make some heavy alterations to the storyline… New hurdles and perils, a clearer yet harder path to the righteous road, more prophetic visions to keep Henry from straying from the final goal…

Yes, yes! He could see it all now, coming into play and falling into place so utterly flawlessly!

This would be the run.

This would be the moment where everything Joseph Drew had worked up to finally proved its worth!

Henry Stein would be his perfect Bendy, before the clock struck midnight and the 31st of August forced everything to come to a fruitless end.

Sitting there on his wheelchair, pencil in hand and ink stained pages ready to be filled with more of his macabre imagination, Joey wasted not even a second of what little sand grains remained in his metaphorical hourglass. 

More creatures, he had locked so many souls in the depths of the inky void that he might as well use them to fill up the halls.

More twists and turns, Henry had but scratched the surface of the studio's layout and capability to shift nearly endlessly. 

More soup, he needed to sustain his dear old pal on something after all!

Soon the pencil became a pen, and the pen inked, lined and wrote in frantic and euphoric speeds. The storyboard would be perfect, no matter how much excess ink dropped on each page from Joey's feverish scribbling.

No matter how the script written alongside it bled blacker than the starless nights.

The linear plot he'd weaved for Henry was now oversaturated with new branching paths and dead ends, little shortcuts and long roads to give his shackles a tiny bit of slack that would then yank him back into the brink of insanity.

The creatures within now improved upon and twice as deadly as before, with lesser beings filling the gaps that appeared with each new upgrade he so graciously offered to the ingrates that couldn't so much as wish to understand his twisted designs.

This was it. The magnum opus.

Henry Stein would seize to be and transcend the path of the Ink Demon to become Bendy. The star of the show, the saviour of this dying dream.

And Joey would be there to witness the glory. To finally fix this horrible mutilation of his work, and rise above the naysayers.

They would all be perfect and the Cycle would at last fulfil its true purpose.

No matter the cost!

With ink stained fingers, and a smile that stretched and stretched and ripped his gleeful face apart, Joey eagerly wheeled himself towards the machine.

Fed it his offerings and cranked it back to life with such youthful delight that he barely noticed the sting of his mangled mouth bleeding gentle rivulets of liquid that was darker than blood should ever be.

His own tainted blood signing his work like a contract with the devil himself.

A mistake he didn't even notice.

But one that something else did.

Something that had wanted out of this charade a long time ago… 

Oh yes, this would be the run.

The final loop of this near endless cycle of madness. And Joey Drew was not winning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not the longest introduction I've ever written but it sets the mood nicely.  
> The stakes are as high as Joey's ambitions.


	3. From the desk of Joey Drew

Dear Henry

It seems like a lifetime since we worked on cartoons together. 30 years slips away. Doesn't it.

If you're back in town. Come visit the old workshop. There's something I need to show you.

Your best pal, Joey Drew


	4. Moving Pictures Reprised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perception is a deceitful thing sometimes... Henry Stein realizes this in the worst possible way.

The loud and unsettling creak of rusty hinges and old rotting wood rang out throughout the old abandoned studio, gusts of fresh air invading its halls and startling the once calm floating dust particles, into a flurry of motion not too dissimilar to that of a furious swarm of buzzing bees. This, Henry thought as he peered into the barely illuminated darkness of the halls, was likely the most action the decrepit building had seen in nearly a decade or so. At least he assumed as such, since the official date of closure was briefly mentioned on the paper, but the vacancy of posts had been far earlier than that. 

Word got around that no one had set foot in there since the scandal of '46, even if the 16th of August of '59 was when Snooks, Spitner and Snooks put the final nail on the proverbial coffin.

But one could only trust so much of what was on public record…

Surely Joey wouldn't have forced anyone to return to work when part of his staff all but up and vanished? 

He'd announced his concerns, even attended interviews with the ever ignominy-hungry press to offer what knowledge he had of the workers that had seemingly disappeared into the night.

A haunting thought, for sure, to wake up one morning and read about the whole ordeal on the local news, and then listen to an old friend on the radio.

Linda had been just as concerned, albeit for other reasons.

"Imagine if you had still worked there Corazon. Those poor families…" she'd whispered as he'd turned off the radio, far too overwhelmed with horror by what little he'd actually heard. "I can't imagine what they must be going through, their own kin gone like smoke in the wind…"

He'd wondered then what it must be like. To vanish as if by magic, with little to no trace left of him. And then he wondered what it had felt like to be in charge of those missing few, and having no conceivable way to figure out what had spirited them away so abruptly, or what to tell anyone that loved them besides a limited idea or theory of what may have actually transpired. He'd felt for Joey, he had. 

Henry never wished him to appear on the news for this sort of shady business.

Even worse still was how eventually everyone just forgot about the incident…

The media mulled over the disappearances for less than a week and then Fantasia happened. A beautiful animated feature, yes (he'd seen it twice before and was glad that they'd restored the orchestra segment), but suddenly that was all everyone gushed about.

None, not one soul, cared for a resolution of the tragedy that occured at Joey Drew Studios, and pleas for public attention on the case went completely unheard.

All they wanted was more of that Disney branded family magic.

Nasty thing, the entertainment business… It was like witnessing a match of chess on a grander scale. Or was Monopoly a more accurate comparison?

Perhaps a mashup of both?

Regardless of accuracy, Henry simply knew it to be as it was. Ruthless.

As he scanned his undusted and cobweb-infested surroundings, Henry slowly lost track of his troublesome train of thought. Memories such as those were not worth getting lost in anyway, especially when he had no business sitting in the doorway of the old studio and should instead be making his way properly indoors.

He fiddled with his back pocket, calloused fingers carefully tugging at the slightly crinkled letter that had surprised him the morning prior. A letter from Joey.

The first he'd had in… well, years actually! Not surprising, as his old pal was one to hold grudges and Henry knew he'd been rather impolite on the day he'd left the studio.

Of course he'd tried patching up their broken friendship with a letter of his own, but he'd supposed he'd hurt his friend's feelings far too much to deserve forgiveness when no reply came.

And then one morning Catherine brings in the mail and, lo and behold, there is that familiar writing style and Joey's signature to top it all off.

Henry hadn't been lying when he'd written about missing his childhood friend. Even the way he dotted his 'I's felt pleasantly nostalgic when he'd first read the impromptu invitation. 

In life friends often came and went, but Joey had just always been there for him. The possibility of mending at least one ruined relationship lessened the weight on his shoulders, especially when many others had been completely annihilated by his surly disposition after he'd been discharged from the army's services.

But Joey wouldn't have to hear the screams, nor see the lost look in his one remaining eye, or even witness his face healing after the shrapnel in that one unlucky landmine had dug out so much flesh and nerve.

Henry was almost a complete man and that was a better revelation than the broken shell Linda had slowly glued back together.

Shaking those much nastier thoughts from his head Henry brought the letter closer to his face, squinting ever so slightly at the simple message and pushing his glasses back into their proper place, as he carefully reread the piece of paper twice more for good measure.

Vagueness was something of an art that Joey had mastered long ago, when prompted by others to explain his actions or the motives behind his often absurd approach. Fancied himself an expert of surprise, which wasn't too far from the truth really. 

Joey always did know how to get up to something new every day, and learned even more ways to avoid a meeting with his father's favorite belt.

Many such tactics often failed (spectacularly at that), but Henry couldn't deny the cleverness of the few schemes that did succeed. He had never been overly fond of Reverend Drew, so helping his friend evade that man's tyrannical punishments had felt satisfying to him just as much as it did his pal.

Perhaps less so, but hey, he wasn't the one getting his rump constantly beaten like a set of tiny bongos.

Henry's father wasn't fond of physical punishment unless the crime justified it (like the incident with his slingshot and Miss Constance's parrot).

Yes, the cryptic nature of the invitation was expected, but Henry couldn't help wonder...

Just what exactly did this abandoned old studio have in store for him? What was he meant to see?

"Alright, Joey. I'm here." he pocketed the letter once more and stepped inside fully, the door closing behind him as the breeze picked up. "Let's see if we can find what you wanted me to see."

Of course there's no reply, as he knows for a fact his friend hasn't arrived yet. But talking to himself felt comforting in the silence of the deceased old atelier's entrance. Sniffing the circulating current he could smell the mold and rotten wood, and felt the taste of air that had practically stagnated over the last decade or so creeping towards the back of his throat.

Uninviting and likely to get him all gross and snotty later, and in desperate need of eye drops.

But also… Nostalgic. Familiar in a way that pressed certain buttons in the overcomplicated machine that was the human brain.

He'd been here once, many years ago, and now he was back.

Except it felt strangely recent as well.

Hard to place it but there was a tiny voice in the back of his mind that said to him that he'd seen this hall before and not just when he'd helped setup shop.

Nonsense, right?

He marched forward upon opting to disregard the little voice. His psychiatrist told him that hearing voices was the first stage of a world class reason to throw him in with the rest of the delusional crowd.

Best not heed their ramblings, otherwise someone might stick a rod in his brain and scrambled it for good.

There were better things to think of, such as the posters on the walls.

A smile crept onto his weary face, making the left side match the right very briefly.

Pleasant memories of times where drawing little promotional pictures for the few animations he'd gotten done, bringing a much more pleasant sort of nostalgia.

The kind that left him with the feeling of a pen in his hand, and ink blots on his skin.

It was a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, like giving a hug in his comfiest sweater.

The grinning devil and the goofy wolf were a sight for sore eyes, although the words printed on the posters? Not so much.

Propaganda for the war... 

An attempt to sell bonds…

It made his face burn slightly.

"Utter rubbish." Buying bonds had done nothing to help. It hadn't stopped good men from dying, and innocents getting stuck in the crossfire of malicious bureaucrats. Henry was pretty sure it had just been a cheap tactic to fill one's pockets. "Things got rough around here, didn't they?"

Not too surprising.

The entertainment industry had been less lucrative than the military until the September of '45 finally hit, and all that was left was for several nations to figure out how to recover.

He'd been discharged sooner thanks to his spinal injuries, thank god, but he'd been around to see the economic collapse.

Not that he'd paid much attention mind you. Studios competing for supremacy was (according to Linda at least), like watching dogs fight over a piece of a chicken's wing.

Only the innovators stayed on top, and when cartoons went to color and Joey Drew Studios stayed black and white?

Well, he'd advised Joey to consider adding a dash of the rainbow in his works, but one would be much luckier trying to steer a stubborn mule into a lake than to offer constructive criticism that Joey wasn't opposed to.

"Maybe color would have entered the realm of possibilities if things hadn't… Turned out the way they did." He murmured as he kept on walking around. Interest in the desecrated posters having waned completely. "I wonder what you would have thought to be a good color scheme for Bendy, Boris and Alice?"

The entrance was just as he'd left it. The narrow corridor that led to a simple room with a once fancy looking logo. A logo which Henry and Joey had assembled together with three large cogs that they'd fashioned into sorta looking like film reels, turning behind a banner showcasing the studio name.

The lobby (or what was supposed to pass for one anyway) was in just as bad shape as everything else. The boards on the floor looking to have become somewhat loose, and the paint on the walls flaking off due to both age and moisture (if the smell of mold was anything to go by). Henry made note that Joey had replaced the banner so it no longer had his co-founder's name on it.

As to be expected really… No use keeping a name that no longer meant anything to the studio.

"Could have maybe have had the plumbing in here checked as well when you did that… Smells like my grandma's attic in here…" he tried to wave the smell of mold out and away from him but it was a fruitless endeavor. The whole wood paneling smelled of it. The floor integrity was likely compromised. "And I swear there's still that dang draft from… Yes there it is."

His legs automatically led him to his old desk, where both his old concept art and the windy draft he'd left behind still awaited him. His affinity for sweater vests had to come from somewhere.

Despite the uncomfortably cramped work space and the cold, he couldn't help smile.

"Hey, here's my old desk. I've wasted so much time in this chair." The cutout was new, but that doodle… the post-it note attached to it… They didn't look to have aged whatsoever for having been kept there for the past 30 years in damp conditions.

He wondered why it was still there, although he actually already knew the answer. Even in their youth Joey had had a tendency to hold on to things as keepsakes. This design may have not been what he was looking for, but it had still marked the beginning of Bendy.

Still he could have at least put it away instead of leaving it as clutter. The small space could have been used for something else.

Moving on past the little memory from the past, Henry noticed that the hallway adjacent to his workspace looked a lot more spacious than it used to be. In fact, the studio seemed to have assimilated the old theater next doors.

"Looks like they knocked out a wall or two after I left." He noted as he stared down below. There were indeed a lot more desks for who knows how many artists. All the better to actually crank out animations on time. "Guess it took a few people to replace me."

Not too keen to go deeper in just yet, Henry decided to turn around and go back into the lobby.

He admired the moving logo for a bit longer before looking over at something he'd somehow not noticed before.

A running projector.

"Oof… Joey must have been here recently. I doubt the studio would still be standing otherwise." Those old things were absolute fire hazards. Norman would have been besides himself if only he'd known this clunky old machine was left unattended. If he was still alive, that is. "Best shut that down before it blows up."

Once the projector was turned off he carried on exploring the remainder of the halls connected to the lobby.

Every closed door appeared to be locked tight, but there was one area that seemed to be less uninviting.

Opposite the direction of the art department, Henry read on the wall where three arrows led him next.

Something called the Ink Machine, the theater and the break room.

"I could use a break. My knee is starting to pop something awful…" What he wouldn't give for a nice comfy chair.

Or maybe less issues actually getting around, but he wasn't getting any younger and his old wounds had been expected to restrict his movements as he got closer to his 70s. Golden years downgraded to a worn bronze. Still better than most war dogs, especially when a lot of his platoon hadn't returned.

A somber and stubborn thought.

"Nostalgic today, aren't I? Haven't thought so much about old ghosts in years… This whole meetup thing is getting to me." He shook his head "Need to think about something else. Thinking about evading death will only make my joints and back ache more."

Not to mention his old heart.

The trek towards the break room was less insightful on his part, mostly due to him making an effort to clear his head. Overthinking was one of his biggest weaknesses (as many were wont to point out), and he often got lost in multiple trains of thought that lead him nowhere but towards self-pity and misery.

Memories of the past, regrets he'd rather not think about, and a few what if scenarios that left him doubting his choices. The typical failings of an old fool's anxious and awfully sentimental mind.

And then there were the nicer things to think of, like his garden and the most recent news funnies. Lovely chuckles to be had as a rare little treat to himself.

"That kid has one funny dog, I'll give Mr. Schulz that." He snorted as he walked along, recalling a particularly funny comic strip featuring a little black and white beagle. "If I recall correctly Joey started selling comics as well… I don't remember why I never really paid it mind..."

Probably due to being rather preoccupied with something a little more pressing. He'd mostly just looked into trying to watch one or two of the shorts whenever they came out in the theaters. As it stood, he had watched four of the later ones? Or was it five? Uh… he couldn't quite recall.

No matter. Those particular doubts were gone once he turned the corner and noticed the rather odd graffiti on the wall, as well as the rather… concerning spill from a pipe above…

Large bold words scrawled almost elegantly and with very minimal splatter to them, that made the whole thing almost look stylized in an artsy cartoony fashion. If not for the soiling jet black liquid cascading from above... 

The acrid smell of chemicals tainting the air with the fetid stench of a factory ran by drunkards. Thick and festering, the kind of smell that just clung to the inside of your nostrils even after you got away from the source. Unpalatable in the most intrusive manner conceivable.

The whole thing was accentuated by the void-like puddle steadily growing on the floor. So pitch in color that it barely reflected light, or even Henry's squinting visage peering back up at him.

Needless to say, Henry was quite concerned as to why a pipeline would be spewing ink of all things. Because of course he recognized that particular smell all too well!

"Best not step on that." These were his best brown dress shoes after all. No need to dye them permanently. "Joey I hope you don't take much longer…"

He carried on towards the break room once he carefully sidestepped the safety hazard, noting belatedly the locked doors with light behind them and the music coming from down the long hall. Things felt more lively than they had a right to be, and that suddenly left him trepidatious.

This old ramshackled building had been abandoned for several years. Why did it suddenly feel so… Displaced in time?

Taking another turn around yet another corner, eye momentarily drawn to a notice board stuck to the wall (something about ink output?), Henry couldn't keep himself from yelping when he suddenly tripped over something in his path.

He cursed his lack of paying attention, as he landed clumsily and found himself out of breath from getting the wind knocked out of him (for lack of better terminology).

"Oof…" That had hurt considerably. And it took him some time to regain his breath and sit back up slowly, one hand against his chest (which he was sure would bruise up considering how his skin had the resistance of a fresh peach) and another braced on his bad knee, before looking down at the culprit of his tumble. 

Another odd pipe, just jutting out of one wall and connecting to another at a precarious height. Foot height no less. "What a dangerous place to install a pipe! Who sorted this place's plumbing after I left?"

Getting back onto his feet and brushing himself off, the old artist carefully clambered up over the damnable pipeline and limped onwards. It took him a second to realize he'd gone the completely wrong way upon noticing the large empty space and the contraptions that awaited him (a generator of some sort?).

There were chains connected to the ceiling and something hidden deep down in the depths, so this was most certainly not the breakroom.

Humming to himself as he glanced back at the panel that he'd caught a brief glimpse of, he noticed that it wasn't a generator per say but that it was connected to one. And it was missing its power source.

Nevermind the fact that this… Industrial lift? Was in the middle of a film studio for unfathomable reasons. Unless it was mostly an aesthetic choice (which he wouldn't put past Joey).

"This lift could use a few dry cells." He scratched his chin as he stared at the double slots. For convenience's sake it was most likely that he would find some nearby. He doubted whomever manned this industrial lift, would be willing to put the one thing that kept the generator going that far away from their workspace. It'd just be a useless hassle otherwise.

And, as he noticed the large trunk and a shelf nearby, he couldn't be more right.

Two nice and hefty dry cells just waiting to be picked up and slotted into their rightful place. Two lovely batteries that were connected without a fuss, before he reached for the large switch on the panel.

"Let's see what you're hiding down there, old friend." He murmured to himself as he pulled down, watching with some degree of awe as a rather peculiar machine was lifted up onto the floor below. A gargantuan mechanical construct connected to long winding pipes and looming above in a way that was both inspiring and somewhat dumbfounding.

What was it? What need was there for it? How much could it have cost?

The steam vents hissed as Henry beheld the thing he could only assume to be the Ink Machine (the sign on the wall called it that, at least, and the notice board on output of ink made sense now).

Curiosity was a weakness of his just as much as it was Joey's, so back down the stairs Henry went (this time wise to the pipe's presence).

What an odd thing to have… an ink production machine. But it made sense in that way only his old pal could think of.

With the war came economic troubles, and with that came a limitation of resources.

He vaguely recalled Linda mentioning that a few businesses had completely collapsed when the war efforts preceded the need for frivolous things. Ink and paper became a scarce thing, so it was a wonder that a few studios had actually survived the "purge" of industry.

Most did it through making themselves useful to the military. Propaganda productions. Cute cartoon characters offering their silly attributes in service of their wonderful country.

He remembers seeing Hitler depicted in cartoons, foiled by lovable household personalities dressed in soldier's garbs and winning against the nazi menace.

It was quite disturbing if he were to be quite frank. Exposing children to the sort of things they shouldn't have to think of.

Have them wonder if daddy was coming back to tell them how he met Daffy Duck out in the fields… 

Make it feel like it was all fun in games when it was anything but. It repulsed him.

It also made him wonder if Joey had produced any of those just to make end's meet…

"Maybe, maybe not. Or perhaps he did it to fund the construction of that contraption." Fund the production of his own brand of ink. It just felt odd that he'd need pipes that were apparently leaking into the studio itself.

A loud clatter startled him out of his thoughts.

A plank of wood (an entire 2X4!) had just fallen off the ceiling and narrowly missed hitting him on the head.

"Jesus…"

He turned to the right of the plank, not really aware of where he was headed next.

Upon looking around at the room he was now in, he paused.

There was a big panel with Ink Machine written on it, as well as a currently blinking pressure gage, and a noticeable big lever ready to be pulled once that issue was resolved.

There were also what appeared to be six pedestals with portraits of stylized symbols behind them.

He blinked once, then twice, then shook off this perplexed state and tried to think logically. Nevermind the strange, almost religious feel to this odd little room. That panel right there was the more important thing now.

"Alright! How do I get this to work?" There was no manual in sight, so he should definitely have a look around for some form of useful instruction leaflet or maybe even some blueprints.

Back into the hall he went, turning a corner only to come face to face with one of the Bendy cutouts he'd briefly seen beforehand just… propped up in the middle of the hall.

He put a hand to his still tender chest and gulped down the anxiety that had nearly bubbled over and out of his mouth.

Or was that his poor heart trying to escape through his throat?

"Who put this here?!" He looked around, both parts confused and a little irritated by such a mean spirited prank.

But then that begged the question: Who else WAS here to do this? Joey would have announced himself.

He sniffed the musty air and grimaced at the whiff of acrid ink just coming off the grinning cutout. That unpleasant chemical odor that was also coming from a hole in the wall just next to it.

He stared at the hole briefly, feeling a chill run up his spine (the kind that he associated with either having unwanted company or feeling watched) before shaking his head, sidestepping, and moving on.

He could figure this out later… Except as soon as he looked up and away from the little grinning devil, a much more grisly sight greeted his one functioning eye.

He had to pause just to make sure his sight wasn't deceiving him. Even went so far as to pull off his glasses and thoroughly wipe the lenses on his sweater vest, but no. As much as he wished his mind were playing tricks on him, that was not at all the case.

"Oh my god." There was Boris. An actual honest to God life-sized model of Boris the Wolf that looked to have been strapped to a table and gutted. "Joey, what were you doing?"

It was surreal to look upon a cartoon character he'd designed just looking like this. Dead, dissected, looking stiffer than a board. With a shocked expression upon his funny looking muzzle, and comically exed out eyes that looked to have been sewn shut. 

Was that a wrench sticking out of the cracked open torso? Resting between the broken ribs and within wet looking viscera...?

Just what had Joey been planning to do with this thing? This, oddly anatomical thing he swore up and down had realistic looking flesh flaps?

Henry took a deep breath to still his frantic heart and shook his head. Right, he needed a wrench didn't he? For the pedestal room thing.

"Don't think about it and just keep on marching forward… It's what you're good at isn't it?" The old cartoonist muttered to himself as he reached up into the macabre display and took hold of the wrench. The wet noise it made as he pulled it out of the chest cavity made every hair on his body stand on end, and the smell was just...Awful! "Don't think about it. Do not think about it!"

He carried the dripping tool at arm's length, refusing to get whatever rotting gunk was oozing off on his person.

Taking a door to the left of the realistic cartoon cadaver leads him through a room with another two desks and a set of drawers hidden in their own little tight corner. Moving past these things he ends up in another tiny hallway that ends in a door he opens without much effort.

Doors are either inconspicuously locked in this building, or strangely left unlocked and to be explored by whoever thought to intrude upon the abandoned studio.

He's in a bit of a crossroads but he goes right, ignoring a can of soup just sitting on a shelf for god only knows how long, and finds a quaint little table with an audio log sitting upon it.

There's an overturned chair that he takes the time to set upright so he may sit for a brief second, then he settles and plays the recording. Because why not?

He puts the wrench on the table as well, now that it has finished dripping.

The voice that comes out of the tape isn't Joey's, but goodness if it doesn't bring a smile to his face?

He only knew Wally briefly, but he was a good kid.

"At this point, I don't get what Joey's plan is for this company. The animations sure aren't being finished on time anymore. And I certainly don't see why we need this machine." The smile falters upon hearing the hesitance on Wally's voice when he mentions what Henry assumes is the Ink Machine. Like something about it was bothering the usually sunny dispositioned Brooklynite. "It's noisy. It's messy. And who needs that much ink anyway?"

Good point.

But then, surely Wally knew the studio must have been doing poorly in the economic decline? Or was there something else he was missing that the younger man had been privy to?

The recording doesn't end there, however.

"Also, get this, Joey had each one of us donate something from our workstations. We put them on these little pedestals in the break room. To help appease the gods, Joey says. Keeps things going." What the hell? "I think he's lost his mind, but hey, he writes the checks. But I tell you what, if one more of these pipes bursts, I'm outta here."

That was a little concerning, but not inherently outside of the scope of Joey's eccentricity.

Even in their childhood he'd had a habit of doing strange little things that seemed outlandish to most, even to Henry himself.

His uncle however, had always told him not to judge others for their quirky behaviour or strange beliefs.

Character was more important than conforming to a social standard, or whatever it had been that the man had tried to impart on him. It had always been a mystery when it came to his uncle's teachings… Henry thought him kind and wise, yes, but also very outlandish as well.

But all wisdoms of far gone times aside, for Joey to openly ask for donations from his workers? Set up some decorative fixtures with religious connotations to them? That was stretching it just a bit too far, even for Joey who'd learned to hide some of his more bizarre interests in his late teens.

After resting for a few more seconds, Henry slowly got back up and decided to see what was inside the room next to the table. It wasn't a room, it turned out, but a mostly empty supply closet with two film reels, three cans of soup and a whole lot of cobwebs inside it. Nothing of use.

He grabbed the wrench off the table and went the opposite way he'd gone before, trying the doors as he went, and mostly ignored the closet chock full of old projectors altogether (best not disturb what little remained of a missing gentleman who saw it fit to organize a closet in this manner).

On his way through the viewing room, he backtracked upon noticing the Bendy plushie resting on a chair. There was a portrait with a doll in the pedestal area, so he assumed he needed it just as he did the dirty wrench.

He couldn't help squeak the little thing's squeaker as he moved on, comforted by the soft texture and cute noise.

From there on out, Henry mostly spaced out as he carried on searching for each item he required.

Went back towards the lift console because he recalled there being a big gear inside the trunk where one of the dry cells had been stored in. 

Played some darts downstairs before collecting Joey's book (he hadn't even known his old pal had published anything independently). 

Tapped his foot to a song on the radio in Sammy's tiny closet office before finding a record to put on the musical pedestal.

Picked up an ink well from beneath a desk that had a rather cute drawing of the little devil darling himself, that Henry swore wasn't sitting before (maybe he'd remembered it wrong).

And then finally trekked back on his merry way to the rather strange room that had started this little self-appointed fetch quest of his.

"Ok! That's all of them." He was just glad not to have to run around anymore.

His old bones were in no condition to go around in circles all day, and he really hoped Joey would arrive soon.

There were questions he'd really like to ask his old friend.

One thing at a time however.

First he needed to slot these key objects into their proper place, then he needed to figure out how to get the ink flowing. There ought to be a switch somewhere nearby that would sort the pressure.

Then he could start up the main power.

Once he'd finished placing each item on their own pedestal, Henry gave a nod of satisfaction and turned back towards the door where he'd come from.

He needed to keep going if this was gonna get him anywhere.

_SQUEAK_

Henry's foot remained in the air, frozen at the distinct sound of the Bendy doll's squeaker going off on its own.

_SQUEAK SQUEAK_

He turned his head as slowly as possible, hand still braced against the doorframe as he glanced back at the empty room that suddenly was not.

There, sitting on a chair that hadn't been in front of the switch, sat none other than…

"Joey?"

_SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK_

The other man wasn't staring at him, instead focused on the little doll he was currently squeezing the life out of. The squeaker going off at a higher pitch the more pressure was applied.

From the angle he was seated, with the back of the chair touching the panel and his legs crossed in a lounging position (the kind straight out of a grand vacation advertisement poster for some exotic beach in Bermuda or what have you), Henry couldn't see his friends eyes.

But his expression… It was an uncharacteristically grim one...

 _SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK_... **POP** …

Silence followed the deafening pop of the dying squeaker bursting. The little doll's head was off and rolling on the floor, spilling it's fluffy white stuffing as it went. Once the doll head came to a rest, and finished spilling it's entrails, Joey finally looked up. But there was more than just the somber expression to tell Henry something wasn't quite right.

Last he checked, his old pal had a startling pair of blue eyes. Not this pitch black set that bore into his soul with the scrutiny of a hawk.

"It's a funny thing, one's perception of the world…" Joey spoke as he watched Henry with an intensity unfitting of his casual tone. "Wouldn't you agree?"

The doll's body was dropped back on the pedestal unceremoniously and the taller man stood up straight. Ignoring the sound of his chair clattering on the floor.

On first inspection Henry noticed that he was wearing that old suit of his, the brown and orange one with a matching bowtie. His most favourite garish piece that he wore on the day they had started up the studio. Henry even recalled that Joey had called it his most luckiest suit.

Another thing to note was that his hair was slicked back to somewhat perfection, and that his mustache and goatee were nicely trimmed, and his eyebrows plucked.

Vanity of the highest degree, a positively cartoonish man that never failed to impress in some way.

Youthful… Where he should not be.

Henry Stein was staring at his old friend as he'd been 30 years ago, not the graying old gentleman that he ought to be. 

Something was definitely not right.

"Tell me Henry, how sure can one be that what they see is the truth, and the truth alone?" The doppelganger (because he couldn't be the man himself) asked, as he paced around the doll's pedestal and began to examine the other items. "That our own perception of events hasn't put a filter over reality as it is?"

"...Who are you?" Henry chose to ask instead. Watching this man with mild distrust as he briefly held the record disk in his hands before setting it down once more, attention now drawn to the book.

"The short answer is, you can't be sure for certain. Everyone is an unreliable narrator, be it by choice or not…" the question was ignored completely, this not-quite-stranger carrying on undeterred as he picked up the black cover that bore 'The Illusion of Living' in proud display on its front. He opened it casually and turned the pages dispassionately, not even bothering to look at Henry as he spoke. "So where does that leave us?"

"You look like Joey, and you sound like Joey… You certainly talk a lot like Joey too…" There was something familiar. Something instinctual in his very core that told him to be wary. A slow but reverberating heartbeat in his ears. "But you're not him. Who are you?"

"It seems to us, like you're asking the wrong questions again." The doppelganger snapped the book shut before promptly tearing it in two with what could only be inhuman strength. "It's not a question of who we are, Henry Stein, but a question of what we are. Or rather...What this all is."

"I… don't follow…" there was a conscious effort to keep himself still. The urge to flee grew with each passing second, as if he were a little rabbit trying to hide in plain sight from a hungry wolf.

Yet at the same time something felt terribly off, and his gut told him running was the best course of action in the presence of this… person? Was it a person? Or…

Why was he suddenly so aware that he was in the presence of something alien in nature? What was going on with him?

"Daft twat…" The flesh of the imposter's face ondulated, as if squirming worms lay beneath the skin.

Fluid and twisting in shape until it was no longer Joey's face but...Sammy's?

Not as youthful as he'd remembered it. With sharper, more prominent, cheekbones and a mess of stubble that made his very long curly blond locks appear very messy. Skin so pale and veins so visible it looked like fractured porcelain. An overall unkempt appearance that contradicted the fussy composer's nature… As if the years had taken from the once fresh-faced man to the point he looked ready to snap in half like a twig.

"You never look past what that old cunt draws out for you. Skim the script and skip along like little red going to grandma's house as gay as can be, unaware of the big bad wolf's looming shadow..." Henry couldn't quite believe it as he watched one face morph into the other. The voices converged and then separated until Sammy's was the only one he heard. That surly tone so fitting of his crass choice of words. But again, despite the other physical changes, the eyes were wrong.

Sammy had the prettiest set of hazel eyes Henry had ever seen, unlike this black eyed shapeshifter of some unknown kind.

"Are you really so blind that you'd make yourself out to be an idiot?" The fake Sammy hissed. "Or is it maybe so much easier to forget? Hm… Yes, that's it isn't it? Ah, yes… Humans are such cowardly selfish creatures. Of course it'd be easier for you to go on forgetting…"

"Forgetting what exactly?"

"That which Joey Drew has wrought upon us all, yourself included." The copycat hissed. The too loose clothing on him leaving ample space to see the composer's ribs so tight to his pale chest.

"I…" what Joey had wrought? What did that mean? "I don't…"

"Imbecile…" the black-eyed Sammy clone twisted his neck to the side sharply, the pop of his vertebrae startling Henry as he did so. The angle looked off (terrifyingly off), but that's besides the point as once again the skin of its face was ripe with movement. Only instead of reshaping itself like before it appears to be... sloughing off.

The disgusting display made the old artist's stomach flip uncomfortably.

Solid porcelain like skin was just dripping off like molten wax and revealing a different and much less sharp form beneath. 

Broader, larger, swelling with much more muscle mass despite the advanced age between the before and after.

Big and brutish, graying curls and expressive eyebrows. Dressed in fine clothing that looked out of place in the studio well before Henry had left.

Norman Polk was a great big brick wall of a man, so seeing him emerge from a fragile looking gentleman just barely under his height and bulk, was quite something indeed. Norman towered where Sammy leaned more, well toned from multiple years of hard labour and intimidating at first glance.

Never cruel or impatient, unlike the thing with dark fiery eyes and dreadful snarl upon its features that currently wore his face like a mask.

The voice changes just as quickly. One moment it's Sammy's, the next it's the southern drawl that Henry had once found comfort in. Not today however.

"Yous really are a pathetic little coward ain't ya?" The doppelganger hissed in his venomous manner, or its venomous manner. This thing was not human whatsoever so he was unsure how to classify it. "Oh Henry, what a tangled web o' lies yous's cocooned yourself in. So eager t'be consumed by the spider, like a fly drunk on fermented fruits..."

This new form was less graceful than Sammy's and Joey's, but he carried himself with a conviction neither men carried in life. Yes Joey was vain enough to hold a stiff yet well practiced posture, and Sammy had been rather poised when he wasn't working himself to death, but Norman strutted in such a manner that it put to shame their attempts at refinement. Even if he lacked grace he appeared bigger than his own body in many ways.

Confident and charming. 

It was somewhat hypnotic.

"Look in your back pocket Stein." He commanded, one eye locked with his own while the other flicked to the other side, unbothered by all this and unwilling to partake in eye contact unlike its kin. Not that the doppelganger needed both to portray the full force of his commandeering presence.

"My back pocket…?" What of it? Henry didn't carry anything but the letter Joey sent him in his back pocket. His issues with mobility made it rather impractical to have much in there, since reaching deeper to pull anything with weight was hard on his lower back and hip. Not to mention the terrible nagging feeling that he shouldn't give in.

That something was horrifically wrong here (besides the otherworldly being copying his friends) and that giving in to this strange creature's will would only end in disaster.

"Do it." He hissed. "You know yous wants to, really… Curiosity wasn't just Mr. Polk's weakness… And yous ain't gonna get anythin' outta livin' in denial, Stein." 

If he didn't know better, Henry would be so very happy to see his old friend who'd been missing for 15 years.

Because this copycat sure knew how to mimic Norman's tactic of persuasion. He could definitely feel curiosity creeping it's long fingers up his spine.

"Look in yous's back pocket. Yous is startin' to make me wonder if Drew ain't the only one who's got the porch light on, but no one home."

He wasn't living in denial!

In fact Henry had no idea what this all was about, so how could he conceivably have any idea of what to deny?

But then… Why did he feel so uncomfortable (besides the obvious reason)? Why did he feel the urgency to look? Why did his right side pocket suddenly feel so heavy…?

Without even thinking, the bespectacled cartoonist reached back and took hold of something that brought the world suddenly crashing down on his head.

Something that broke through whatever spell he'd been in this whole time.

"No…" it was all rushing back now as he stared at the Seeing Tool firmly held in his grasp. The copy of Norman smiled a little too wide as it watched him. Satisfied.

"Good. You ain't so useless after all..." He, it, chuckled as the southern man's form melted away into a puddle of ink that spread up the wall and around on the floor.

The pounding of his heartbeat flooding his senses. The only thing he could hear in between the waves of terror and anguish.

The creeping puddle was now a living twitching plume that followed the movements of something that had been hunting Henry for god only knew how long he truly had been here.

Because this wasn't his first time back in this wretched place.

God no. He'd lost count after the 960th mark. But it was an eternity at best.

An eternity forgetting and restarting an impossible and rather repetitive cruel journey all over again. One filled with so much torment and anger that it could drive even a saintly man mad. Not that he was a saint to begin with...

Henry Stein was a prisoner, and this thing talking to him was both a tormentor and the prison cell itself.

"Lookin' a little flustered there, Stein…" Norman's voice prevailed for a little longer as it spoke, but it was quickly overtaken by thousands of other voices. The voices of its victims. Henry had the distinct impression that it was still grinning from ear to ear. Pleased to have made its point clear. "We'd think you would be happier knowing the truth."

"I don't know… how to feel about this..." That's a lie, he's furious. Abysmally so. But also rendered stupid by existential terror.

How did one cope with realizing they were trapped, likely for eternity, and trapped by an old friend no less?

The things he'd done...

The things he'd seen…

The things this thing had witnessed him do just to survive in this pit…

"Those who are illuminated often find themselves at a loss, Stein." The plumes encircled him. He could feel the cold wet lapping of ink against his person, but no stain was left where the fluttering touches kissed bare skin. "But ignorance is no bliss in this world. And foolishness will only exacerbate the problem at hand."

"Joey, you mean?" Because that's always what people meant wasn't it? That Joseph Drew was the cause of all evils that occurred in the quaint little suburb they lived in. The cause of those mysterious disappearances that had fleetingly shocked the nation.

"Drew isn't the only problem, but he is certainly the cause of many." Henry shuddered as he felt a hot breath against the back of his neck. This entity that he could barely see was walking circles around him, assessing him from all angles and likely relishing from getting to pour its insight on someone that had opted to remain still rather than run for the proverbial hills. "We speak of a greater picture, Stein. One that may encompass you if the right cards are played… You see, dear old Drew had made quite the blunder this time."

This perked Henry's interest considerably. Rarely did Joey's mistakes cause more than grief for others, so to hear that one mishap might lead to something of interest was both peculiar and worthy of hearing out.

The script was set and the loops constant, so what could have gone wrong? What gave this thing room to appear before him without the Ink Machine having been awoken within the main storyline?

"I'm… Listening." He hesitated, but it was no less the truth. Not much he could do besides listening.

"We knew you would. Your selfish desire to escape is an easy tool to toy with." He felt slightly offended but opted not to voice it as the entity carried in. "Something has spooked Mr. Drew into altering his formula. An inevitability we've heard of when he thinks we cannot hear the whispers. In his haste to improve upon the script, he has given us more… Leeway through unintended offerings."

The plumes retracted, compacting themselves into a vaguely humanoid shape that stared at Henry with pinprick glowing eyes. Several hundreds of them.

It tapped its chin with a long spindly finger.

"Normally a few drops of his tainted blood wouldn't give us much strength, but the desperation and feverish passion behind it…" the figure squirmed visibly, fluctuating between a solid form and the wriggling plumes it often appeared as. "They're the product of something more genuine and raw. They're a living power. Mr. Drew has given us the ability to facilitate your passage without intending to… Which means you, Henry Stein, are the key to helping us leave this wretched place…"

"You're helping me so you can escape, you mean?" So he really was a tool in this thing's eyes. "Is that even possible for you?"

"In a way, yes. But it is a limited freedom… Not that it matters. We merely wish to get even with the rotten deceiver." The humanoid figure melted away, back to crawling on the surrounding environment as a shapeless being. "Too long he's used us to move his pawns… Too long he's abused us! Surely you could understand the need for revenge? When he took so much from you? So much precious time?"

How long had it been?

Was there anyone out there missing him?

Were Linda and their girls waiting for him?

"... What would you have me do?" Because he knew there wasn't a way to escape once he set foot in Joey's apartment. That's when control left him, and Joey dictated his every move. 

When his old pal tossed him right back into this twisted cycle for round whatever number they were on. "The 'End' reel does nothing..."

"The 'End' reel DOES something. It does what it was designed to do… What you require is to crack open the shell and shift the insides around." The entity retorted sharply. "The issue is retaining control so that you may actually do so."

"I've tried breaking it before. Once, when I remembered the last loop…" he offered, although he knew it probably was quite aware of his previous attempts.

"It cannot be damaged in this realm." The plumes brushed against him once more, but this time Henry felt the pressure of multiple hands on him. "It was created in your world, not within the Cycle…"

That didn't explain the concept art of the beastly form of the Ink Demon shattering the reel. Then again those were likely just that. Concepts that never took flight.

"I can't break Joey's control. Not in the apartment." He sighed, this was getting them nowhere.

"No, that is true. Not if you follow the script…" it conceded. "However, there is a loophole one could exploit… You see, the script is a wall of sorts. What keeps the Cycle confined within the actual ink machine. We are the power that enforces that boundary… However, our hold isn't infinite. We have spots we cannot tamper with. Weaknesses. Blind spots."

Henry frowned as he considered this.

Weak spots? Was there such a thing in the studio? And if so, how had he never found them? He'd explored every nook and cranny that he could conceivably squeeze himself into.

"If you mayhaps attempted to… Say… Use an object from the real world to break through? Well…" The entity reformed into the stolen form of Joey, smiling an unnatural stretched grin. One that would put the Ink Demon's to shame. "You'd end up out of bounds, dear friend."

An object from the real world.

The 'End' reel itself!

Joey had accidentally provided him with the key to freedom because he was meant to actually get the reel in the plotline he'd concocted. How ironic… And worth a shot.

"....I'll help you." He finally agreed. "On one condition."

"Of course, we wouldn't expect anything else from a human…" The entity sighed. "What do you wish for us to do for you, Mr. Stein?"

Considering his words carefully, Henry finally brought himself to establish eye contact with this not-quite-devil that was offering him a deal.

"I want to help everyone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise. This isn't your typical loop, and Henry Stein is not a well put together man.  
> Things are going to get, interesting...

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write a longer chaptered fic with my version of post-canon/game events, so no time like today!
> 
> This will be headcanon heavy, and will also explore a few topics that were pretty difficult subjects in the 1930s era. Be mindful of chapter warnings if those are present.


End file.
